Emielle

Sebek may not be the most openly lovey-dovey partner but he cares in his own way. His own stubborn, 'twist my arm' kind of way. He's better about it in private but the more time you spent with his family, the more you understood. All three Zigvolt children deferred to their mother and it was a big surprise to see them rub noses as they entered the house, accepting the hug. They hissed and gurgled in their father's general direction but he didn't seem to be offended.

Quite the opposite in fact.

You felt a little silly standing there, wondering if you should stretch on tip-toes and rub noses with her. She seemed to read your mind; Sebek's mom raised a hand and you did the same, expecting a handshake. You squeaked when she scooped you up effortlessly, swinging you back and forth. "They're so cute, Becky!"

"Your nickname is Becky?" you turn your head to Sebek, his cheeks burning a fierce pink. He turns away from you but you can see red on the back of his ears.

You yelp as Sebek's mother swings you violently towards his father. "Look, honey! Cute, right?"

"Of course, dear!" he toasts you with a cup of something. "But maybe don't swing so hard. I think Lilia said they're fully human?"

"True. Sorry, I forget my own strength when I'm excited!" she laughs, her smile a bright and beautiful testament to the fact that Sebek's father is a dentist.

"Human? Totally human?" his brother and sister are upon you now, towering over you like Sebek does. His mother plunked you down in front of them; you do your best to calm your nerves and not swallow too thickly because they sense fear (literally).

"Don't be rude!" Sebek slides in between you and his brother as his sister squeezes your arm experimentally, flipping your wrist over and taking it in her hand. His brother stops sniffing you, a controlled bellow rolling in his closed mouth. Sebek's brow pinches as he gives a similar noise, puffing his chest out and bumping it against his brother's.

His sister is nice enough to pull you away seconds before they start snarling and clicking their jaws at each other. You hear Sebek growl as his brother sinks his teeth into his arm; they turn into a blur of limbs.

"Welcome to the family!" Sebek's father laughs as you take refuge with the only other human.

"Squishy, but I think you'll do okay," his sister decides. She teethes your wrist curiously and you jerk your hand away on instinct. There's a faint red scratch from her teeth.

"Don't bite the guests!" his mother admonishes.

"Grandpa told me to do it as a test! You have to see how strong their bones are! If their bones are week, so is the rest of them!" she defended. Sebek's dad snorts into his mug.

The first meeting was a little chaotic but you'd slowly endeared yourself to the Zigvolts. You'd been to see them six or seven times but didn't meet Baur Zigvolt until the third. Lilia said he was nicer than he looked but he still reeked of intimidation; you could tell he was putting on his best 'soft' face even though he looked indifferent. He was like a cat; he wouldn't run if you sat in his space but he didn't come to you. You were lucky to get a blink of acknowledgement.

Lilia managed to unearth a 'they're an adequate partner for my grandson, I suppose. They make him happy.' which is practically a blessing. It explained why he gave you an enchanted dagger on the fourth visit. The handle was made from shed scales and Baur swore it could get you out of any net. He said he'd used it several times in the war and he hadn't seen something it couldn't cut through.

You really felt welcomed into the family when Sebek's dad offered to check your dental work on the down-low. Sebek's mom may or may not have threatened Crowley with 'being plucked and nutless' if he didn't raise your allowance to something a little more comfortable. After her visit he miraculously found extra money in the budget.

You felt like you could breathe for the first time since coming to Twisted Wonderland. A future seemed possible instead of grim and questionable.

That future was shattered when you opened the mailbox at gate leading to Ramshackle. There was a note addressed to Sebek Zigvolt. He wasn't here and Ramshackle wasn't his address. Your red flags were waving at full speed; you decided to open the letter and apologize later.

You didn't recognize the stamp at the end but the message was clear: his sister had been kidnapped. Letter clenched in your fist, you took off to Diasomnia. Sebek had cautioned you against recent visits despite invites; you vaguely remembered something about his sister trying to date someone and Baur putting his foot down. Though Baur would never hurt his granddaughter, the fights were constant. Apparently he'd reached out to his network of fae friends and requested an investigation on her human.

Allegedly he had ties to modern anti-fae groups.

That allegation was looking very true. Out of breath, you barged into Diasomnia. A few Diasomnia members tried to stop you from entering the room--the crashes and shouts were audible--but you pushed them away and shouldered the door open. Sebek was distraught; his face was pink with frustration and the vein across his temple was prominent.

His yellow-green eyes were wet with tears.

"We got one too," Lilia murmured, closing the door and cutting off the curious, worried views into the trashed room. You didn't think a piece of furniture survived. Pillow feathers littered the floor; his sheets were ripped to shreds but you couldn't tell if it was by claw or tooth.

Clearly the guy knew enough but didn't know everything. You wondered how many letters had been sent as you compared the two. It was the first time you'd actually read it and couldn't believe there was an actual address on the back! Lilia and Silver started picking up the room, Sebek and Malleus in the middle of phone calls. As much as you wanted to comfort your boyfriend, your feet took you in another direction.

Your thoughts were rattling off as fast as your heartbeat, lungs pushed to their limit. This guy was expecting a fae to save another fae. Not a human. He'd be practically defenseless if a HUMAN came, right? All of his tricks were for fae!

Lucky for you, you had tricks of your own. Tricks that might require Sam and the tweels, but tricks all the same. You ran back to Ramshackle to grab the dagger just in case. Having something enchanted couldn't hurt, right? You snatch up one of Sam's enchanted bags and head to the shop.

The shadows were happy to see you, darting around the aisles and circling your feet. "Sam!" you breathe, slapping your hands down on the counter, "I need you to make me a really important deal?"

"I'm all ears, Little Imp!" he smiles, leaning on the counter.

"Let me take what I need and I'll bring back whatever I don't use! If I use it, I'll bring money for it!"

He'd certainly never heard such a thing. You've never asked for this kind of deal before. His brow began to furrow suspiciously, eyes reading yours. It wasn't the type of urgency he saw with kids trying to buy last minute 'focus chews', but something deeper. He could tell by the way the shadows fluttered that it was serious.

"Just this once." He pointed at you.

You took off down the aisles and he wondered what you were preparing for. The first thing you thought of were the living sticky notes; you'd seen Floyd make them into paper airplanes and send them around the classroom when he was bored. That'd be a good distraction! There was a screwdriver that ate screws as you worked so you didn't lose them; this guy probably had iron traps to disable.

If this guy really was anti-fae, who knew what condition Sebek's sister was in? You grabbed some snacks and drinks just to be safe. A can of hairspray caught your eye and you paused; it wasn't the brand Vil used but he said it was comparable and worked in a pinch. You'd heard him say it could really hold hair (and Jamil confirmed bugs couldn't FUCKING move if it touched them). There wasn't time to debate anything else; you heard Sebek's unmistakable voice echoing at the front of the store.

Sam motions for you to head out the back and you do, set on hitting Octavinelle before catching a bus into town. You don't realize a shadow slipped into your bag and you're none the wiser as you negotiate a couple syringes of the Tweels' blood from the three of them. They'd made one too many jokes about their blood being poisonous to humans before you saw the effects in person; Azul had to find a heavy-handed way to make a point without using detectable magic on his more 'difficult' clients and the Tweels were the answer. If you hadn't forgotten your only coat at the lounge, you never would've seen what happened to the poor guy.

Azul attempted to negotiate something but the Tweels were too interested in what you were going to do. The most you ever asked for was more hours or to take an 'accident' meal home. They shushed him; the blood came from them so they could give it away! "I feel like it will be an interesting story," Jade smiles and it's the first time you see Floyd in him, "be sure to come back and tell us."

You don't know how you managed to avoid the Diasomnia crew but you made it onto the bus and into the city. The address led to a processing factory and your instinct was to scoff because it smelled like a movie setup from your world. Instead of an ice factory or meat plant, however, it was a pharmaceutical center. That made the hairs on your neck stand up.

Were they using fae for pharmaceuticals? What could you possibly make out of a crocodile fae?

On second thought, I don't want to know, you purse your lips as you look at the building. It didn't look as modern as the others on the block but the gate was upgraded. Were they trying to make it look abandoned? Less suspicious? Did these people not know property records could be checked for activity?

It was more surprising to you that they didn't have cameras. Maybe it's because fae couldn't be caught on camera easily? The scent of iron hits you, heavy enough to leave a tang in your mouth. You grab the fence and shimmy your way up, glad you had to learn how to climb and repair Ramshackle's roof during your time in Twisted Wonderland. You land clumsily on the other side of the fence, hissing at your knees.

The grass looked unkept but it hid a smattering of daisies and primrose. You rip up as many as you can find on your way to the building. You may not remember everything Lilia's told you about fae-plant knowledge, but you know these are deterrents and protective measures against them.

Did this guy have a group or was he working on his own? You didn't even know. Deeming the yard clear enough, you hide on the side of the building and start folding little airplanes. They buzz and poke like a pocket full of hornets but don't hurt. The doorway is lined with salt and you scoff, scrubbing it away with your foot.

The door swings shut behind you and you find yourself in a large, dimly-lit space. It's cold here; you can feel goosebumps on your arms. A bright light explodes and you wince against it, putting up your hand.

"Where's the rest of you?"

"I don't need them," you bluff.

"Why aren't you shrinking away, creature?! Light's supposed to hurt you!"

"Not all of us." you roll your eyes. "Someone didn't do their homework."

You can't see for shit but he doesn't have to know that. Maybe he'll come to you. The guys who think they can't be touch and have planned for everything usually do stupid stuff like that. Conveyor belts and large machines take shape in your vision as the light leaves but you don't have time to register them before a sucker punch knocks you to the ground.

"How'd you get past the defenses?" he surprises you with a right hook, other hand coming to your throat. For a minute it catches you off guard and you squeak. His eyes narrow, cold and dark as he sneers above you. "Why are you so easy to hit? So weak?" he squeezes your throat experimentally and you cough.

"I'm," you suck in a breath as your brain scrambles through the moves Lilia has taught you. His grip is tightening. You think back on the playfights you've had with Silver, Sebek, and his siblings. The sting of them being easy on you hits now, bites harder than ever, and you resort to Lilia's age-old advice of 'there is no fair in a fight'. "I'm a human!" you yell, kicking him in the balls as he wheezes and rolls off of you.

It certainly won't be enough to keep him down but it's a start. You gasp for breath, reaching blindly into your bag. The hairspray is pushed into your hand and your eyes widen as the shadow slinks out of the bag, melting into the floor. The "boyfriend" starts to push off the floor and you aim the can at him, spraying it directly into his eyes. He shuts them on instinct, as anyone would, and you think they've actually sealed together!

You catch your breath, impressed with yourself. You stand above the blinded man as the situation hits you. Somehow this is more confusing than dealing with the overblots. He feels blindly for you and you step back, barely keeping your ankle out of his grasp. A moment of cruelty overtakes you and you let the sticky notes out of your pocket.

They don't hurt him but they're annoying. It buys you time to look around for anything you can hit him with. There's big vats and tumblers but nothing small or convenient. The places reeks of metal and would probably make fae nervous about what would hurt them, though.

"Why are you doing this?" he yells, turning in a circle on his hands and knees as he swats at the sticky notes.

"Because that's my boyfriend's sister, asshole!" you jump on his back, beating him with the can of hairspray. You try to choke him out like you did Sebek's brother (on accident) and it almost works. He gets a handful of your hair and starts trying to drag you from behind him. One hand full of your hair and one gripping you by the pants, you panic as he stands and holds you above his head.

This is definitely something that happens right before a person's tossed onto their head or snaps their neck! You give a few panicked kicks before your bag slides down and smacks him in the face. It's hard to reach your bag since he's locked his arms; he didn't expect something to hit him in the face and you feel his grip loosen. Swinging your legs, you lock them around his neck as you fish for the syringes of blood.

His neck is thick so you can't choke him out.

You pull the cap off of one and stab it into the meat of his arm. He writhes in pain, flinging you off of shoulders. You hit the ground with a grunt, sucking in a breath. He trips over you, slipping on your ankle and kneeing you in the stomach on the way down. Halfway out from under him, you grab another syringe and stab him in the arm that wouldn't let go of your legs.

Getting him in both arms was enough, right? The symptoms varied, according to Jade and Floyd. It could be as innocent as the stomach bug or as serious as paralysis. Numbness wasn't uncommon, though. Sweating and cramps was pretty normal, though.

He looked like he was starting to sweat already. You wondered if that would undo the hairspray. You scramble to your feet, last syringe pointed out like a knife. Lungs heaving, one eye threatening to swell shut, you jam it into his ankle just to be on the safe side.

You take off.

The adrenaline is fading and it dawns on you why he chose somewhere cold. Much like Malleus, Sebek and his family didn't do well in the cold. It made them sleepy and less active. You start looking around for an area big enough to stash a human when something grabs your foot. "A shadow?" you watch it wind around your leg, wispy hand grabbing your shoulder as it settles behind you.

"Any chance you can help me find Sebek's sister?"

It squeaks and you follow it. You look back in the direction you came from, sure you can hear vomiting. The shadow leads you to a walk-in freezer and you pull it open. There, in a large net, is Sebek's sister. She's still and pale and your heart is in your throat.

You grab the net, poking her through the diamond pattern. She doesn't move. The net is weirdly sharp and you hiss as it cuts your fingers. Was this a net made out of metal or something?! It's stupid to do but you don't see any other option; you grit your teeth and drag the net to the open door so that psycho can't lock you both in there.

The shadow may not be able to help you if you get stuck. There's places even shadows don't like to go!

Dragging her is a slow process; she's heavy and the net is cutting into you. It doesn't help that you readjust and try to grab in different spots so she's easier to pull. You're halfway to the door when you get the idea to roll her onto her back, pick up her feet, and push her to the door. She's probably sliding easier because of all your bloody handprints but you don't think about that. Safely out of the freezer, you drop her feet and slowly cut away the net with her grandpa's dagger.

It's hard trying but you finally get her out. You'd apologize about the tears in her outfit later. Sighing as you mentally prepare yourself to lift her dead weight, you pull her across your back as best you can. Her dead weight makes you bend like an old person; she drags more than you like but you can walk under her if you don't think about it too much. Your next step is into a puddle of wispy shadow and you stumble as you reemerge near the door.

She falls off your back and you wince.

Her 'boyfriend' is sweaty, surrounded by puke, and looks like he's convulsing.

Not your problem.

"You couldn't do that earlier?" you shake your head at the shadow. It gives a squeak and flares up enough so it has shoulders to shrug.

You drop the net over him out of spite, searching the area for the syringes. Don't want the Tweels to be implicated in anything. You'd just collected the last one when the doorway clogs with people.

Is Baur...electrified right now?

"Everything's fine! All clear." you wave.

"My baby!" Sebek's mother scoops her up like she's nothing. Lilia appears at her side, handing her a fluffy black blanket you've seen before.

"Everything is most certainly not fine!" Lilia assess you, "come, beastie."

Sebek practically pounces on you, knocking Lilia aside as he yells things like 'HOW COULD YOU?' and 'WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?'

"I was thinking that he'd already caught one fae and he'd hurt the ones who came to help them." you say calmly, staring at him with the one eye you can still see out of. "He wouldn't know what to do with a human."

Sebek grips you by the shoulders. Hard. "You're infuriating." he shakes you. "And I love you."

"I love you too." you smile at him. He brings you into a crushing hug and you wince. There's a lot of sore stuff and you're not sure if anything is broken.

"The hunter, Queen Maleficia," Baur drops the boyfriend from his shoulders.

The tall, elegant woman nods at you and Baur. The black spots made her kind of hard to see. You start to say something but the words don't make it to your lips. The sound dies in your ears like someone pulling the plug on a TV.

You wake up in a hospital bed--the school infirmary?--and give a hum of delight when you can see out of both eyes. Your vision clears and Sebek becomes obvious, closest to your bed. His hand is holding yours. Malleus rises from his chair in the corner, offering it to Silver as Lilia makes a beeline for you and rummages in a bag. "Snack, beastie? You need to eat up and get your strength back!" he offers you some chips.

"In recognition of said strength, I have a gift for you, human." Queen Maleficia sweeps in softly, stepping to your bed with purpose. You find yourself wondering if she'd been waiting around for you or if she'd been summoned. She holds out two small velvet boxes and opens them to reveal a shiny onyx scale and a glimmering green one. "You have proven yourself courageous and devoted to the fae in your act of service to the Zigvolts and I, Queen Maleficia, seek to bestow you with the fae lineage of your choosing."

You stare blankly at the boxes, stunned. Fae can just..do that? Just make someone a fae just like that? Well, maybe she could. She's the queen and all. She's speaking to Lilia out of the side of her mouth, bent over, when your brain kicks in.

"What are they? Like...is one from a bug fae? I don't want to be a bug, you know? N-Not that bug fae are bad, of course!"

She lets out a lilting, rich laugh that makes you relax. "You may choose to be crocodilian, like the Zigvolts, or of draconic lineage like my grandson and I."

"Dragon!" you blurt immediately, eyes lighting up. Being part dragon sounded cool! The fact that the green scale could've come from Sebek's family, or Sebek himself, was an afterthought. Queen Maleficia nods and the whole box glows; the scale dissolves into a twinkling mist that drifts into your mouth.

"I'll take my leave," she fixes her dress, tucking the boxes away in a hidden pocket. "I have a meeting about that revolting hunter."

She disappears in the doorway and Baur takes her place, a band-aid on his cheek. He arches a brow curiously at his weeping grandson, only able to make out 'dragon' and 'great Malleus'. It's clear he doesn't hear you asking not to squeeze so tight and to let go.'

"They've chosen to be a dragon fae," Lilia laughs into his hand.

The entire cabin sat in suffocating silence, the air thick with grief, pressing down on everyone like a heavy blanket. Though each person reclined in the lounge with eyes closed and limbs still, it was only a performance—none of them could sleep. Not really. The loss was too sharp, too fresh. Everyone processed it differently, but one truth echoes in their hearts: the tragedy hadn't begun the night you died. It had taken root long before. By the time they truly knew you—truly loved you—you were already gone.

Yuuka took it especially hard. She had always seen you as family, someone irreplaceable, and yet, she hadn't been able to do anything to save you. She sat, hollow-eyed, looping over every memory in painful detail, desperately searching for a moment she'd missed—a sign. Was there a day you came home different? Later than usual? Quieter, colder? She tore herself apart wondering if she had ignored the moment your light began to dim.

Ace wrestled with a different torment. His guilt ran deep. He had known you from the very beginning, or at least, that's what he'd convinced himself. In truth, he saw you—passed by you—but never really looking until it was already too late. You were forgotten the moment you weren't in the room. The thought haunted him. He should have known you better. Should have seen the signs. Should have asked more questions. Lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, he kept repeating that same aching mantra: I should've done something. I knew them. I should've known.

You never spoke about the neglect you endured, not directly. But in the aftermath, the pieces fell into place. It became clear to those who mourned you that something had been very wrong. Whatever deal you'd made to rise so suddenly in the eyes of the world—whatever force had pulled you from the shadows into the spotlight—must have come with a price. And so they wondered, each in their own quiet despair: What final blow pushed you over the edge? Who, in their carelessness or cruelty, handed down your death sentence that night?

When you told them about the Blot—about everything you knew and everything you felt they needed to know—their responses were varied as they were heartfelt.

Kalim, Ace, and Yuuka held onto you with unwavering faith. They clung to the belief that you were still you, that the Blot didn't change who you truly were. They hoped, desperately, that it might fade, or be cured. That things could somehow return to normal.

But others—Vil, Leona—responded with wariness. They had seen what the Blot could do, had felt the darkness clawing at the edges of control. To them you were walking a dangerous line. They didn't say it outright, but the fear was there, unspoken but heavy: Had you been building this Blot inside you for months unnoticed? Were you already a ticking time bomb?

And the unthinkable loomed in their thoughts: If you were to overblot... if the darkness overtook you completely... would they even be able to stop it?

None of them could say it aloud, but the truth lingered in every glance exchanged, every tense silence.

None of them were sure if they could raise their pens against you.

Not if it came to that.

When the talk turned to the possibility of breaking the contract, of severing the tie that bound you to the Blot, the group was split even. They knew, perhaps more clearly than you did, that the Blot wasn't just a threat—it was also your lifeline. Whatever bargain had been struck, however dark, it was keeping you here. Keeping you alive.

Leona, ever pragmatic, offered to try. He mentioned his Unique Magic—how he'd broken so-called unbreakable deals before, even Azul's ironclad contracts. Nothing was truly unbreakable, he said.

And so, with quiet determination, he reached out and took your lifeless hand in his. The moment his fingers brushed the ring, the temperature plummeted. The metal, already ice-cold, turned searching. It burned your skin with such intensity that you cried out, jerking away. A small yelp—but it was enough. Enough to freeze everyone in place.

A warning.

That was the last attempt. They decided then and there—spoken or not—that they wouldn't try again.

Especially not if removing it meant risking your life.

It was unmistakable now; the Blot did not intend to be cast off. it had clung to you with possessive desperation, punishing even the suggestion of separation. It lashed out—not with fury, but with something: quieter. Sharper. Intentional.

Even in sleep, where you should have found escape, peace eluded you. Your dreams were restless landscapes of whispered arguments and echoing what-ifs, and always, always, you felt watched. The Blot's presence lingered like static in the air, wrapping around you—and them—with a warmth that was oppressive now. it pulsed with something old, something aware.

They felt it too. All of them.

This thing, this force that had given you life again, now seemed to loom like a second shadow. To you, it hummed softly—a low thrum that followed you into sleep. A presence. A heartbeat.

The ring itself pulsed faintly now, like something alive. At first, it was steady, a subtle rhythm you barely noticed. But tonight—tonight it was faster.

Uneven. Anxious.

Almost... afraid.

The world you found yourself in was a place that refused to stay still, a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and colors, constantly rearranging itself. It couldn't decide what it wanted to be, but there were a few constants—persistent patterns, repeated hues and forms, that twisted in ways you couldn't make sense of.

Then, you hear it. A voice. Ortho? Malleus? Someone else?

The syllables stretch unnaturally long, each word mangling into the next. The rhythm of their speech is off, warped, the tone repeats your name—but something's wrong. Too many echoes. Too many wrong echoes. You blink, and the voices morph into your own, distorting, mocking, mourning. They plead with you in voices that sound like they belong to someone else, but their sharp edges make you flinch, as if they're cutting into you from within.

Are you dreaming? You can't tell. You're not sure of anything here.

You're not sure of yourself.

As you move through the space, you catch glimpses of your reflection—though it's never whole. Shattered glass splinters at your feet, distorting the image in jagged pieces. In broken fragments, you're not what you remember. You're something else. Your flesh is gone in places, hanging from exposed bone, rotting, decaying. Your neck is bent at an angle recognized as impossible and inside you, insects crawl—skittering through the hollow where your heart should be, where your life should still pulse.

The sight is too much. It's suffocating.

You can't bear to look any longer, but the reflection clings to you, mocking you with every step. You stumble backward, heart pounding, your body aching as if each moment is strenuous. Your legs are unsteady, as if the ground beneath you is not quite solid, and you twist around, turning on your heel.

You run.

But it's difficult.

Breathing is a struggle. The hollow ache in your lungs is a cruel reminder there is no air to pull in.

When you look down, the fragments of your reflection remain—clothing torn, tattered, beyond recognition, and the sight of your chest, cracked open like a broken shell, takes the last of your strength.

The world is wrong. Everything is wrong.

No wonder you can't breathe; you don't have lungs anymore.

The gravity of the place feels distorted, pulling in strange directions that you can't describe, warping the space around you. The world is devoid of color, but your eyes are assaulted by a dizzying array of hues—too many, too fast, too intense to comprehend. It's as if the colors exist beyond the spectrum you know, beyond the limits of your perception.

The Blot's voice—its presence—flooded your ears, your mind, seeping into every corner of your thoughts. It shuddered around you, writhing, as though the dream world itself couldn't hold its form any longer. It was a reflection of the Blot's own stress, its instability. Just as it's form trembled and shifted when thrown off, so too was the fabric of this space.

You could only assume that by being so deeply entangled with the Blot, you had somehow slipped into its mind—or maybe its world. It wasn't clear.

Words collided in the air—some soft, others shrill—whispers, shouts, incoherent fragments. It was like it was speaking from everywhere at once. But amidst the chaos, one voice pierced through the noise, Its tone raw and desperate. It screamed in your head.

"Why? Why are you doing this?" The Blot's voice cried.

Its panic was visceral—almost childlike, trembling between frustration and pleading.

It didn't understand.

"Why are you telling them? We were fine! We were together! You... you were so kind to me this morning before the hike..." It stuttered, its words stumbling in confusion, the longing sharp as it clung to your closeness from that morning.

It didn't understand.

You ran—but you didn't know for how long.

How long had you been hiding from the Blot? From the reflections that mocked you? From the rotting body that you could feel but not escape?

Every step felt like a step toward something other, something incomprehensible. You were a ghost, running from the dark surrounding you.

The collision—the crash—was deafening, shocking you back into clarity. The monolith before you splintered at your touch, shuddering and shifting. It was an immense crystal statue—though it was never still. It shifted, reformed, nearly a living creature in constant flux, impossible to make sense of. Was it a figure? A being? Or something that had once been but had long since lost its meaning?

The statue hummed, a deep, resonant sound like the tuning of a cosmic fork, vibrating through the air, through you. Its surface was smooth, glasslike, but etched with thousands of names, faces, forms—rewriting itself over and over again. It was as if the statue was an archive, trying desperately to preserve its own history, its purpose.

You wanted to reach out, to understand, but before you could touch it, the ground beneath you buckled. The wailing grew louder, sound warping and twisting until it seemed to come from every direction at once. The Blot's presence flared, its grip on you—on everything—shattering.

And then... it was gone.

And darkness swallowed you whole.

Static crackles across your tongue—acidic and sharp, like chewing electricity. You blink rapidly, over and over, your eyes straining against the suffocating nothingness that surrounds you. There's no darkness, no light. Just everything and nothing, layered over each other in a space that doesn't obey rules. A contradiction you can't comprehend.

Then—clarity.

A voice begins, soft and distant, like a recording warped by time. It's not speaking to you, not exactly. It's narrating. Telling a story that feels familiar in your bones, though your memory protests.

Long before time's tapestry unraveled into the mortal world, there existed the Angel of Faces, a being crafted by the divine will to be a mirror of mortal perception. The Creator designed them without a fixed form, a blank slate destined to reflect the countless faces imagined by mortalkind—a bridge. They were the Messenger of Truths, delivering divine revelations in guises familiar and comforting, ensuring mortals could bear the weight of celestial messages.

Images crack open before you—like shattered glass, jagged and glinting, tumbling one after another into focus. They don't move like real things—more like illustrations torn from pages of a storybook.

You see them—a being of indescribable beauty, ever shifting. Their form changes like water caught in starlight, their features never still. They descend from the sky, trailing light behind them, wearing faces borrowed from dreams and fantasies. As they meet mortals, they speak in soft tones and gentle smiles, becoming what people expect to see.

The scene carries the nostalgic warmth of fable, but something about it gnaws at the edges.

Mortals, however, are imperfect storytellers. Each encounter reshaped the Angel of Faces, adding new features, quirks, and expressions. Some saw them as a serene guardian; others envisioned a stern judge or a deceiving trickster. These conflicting descriptions layered upon the angel like masks, making their true self indistinguishable, even to themselves.

You watch the whispers spread—around campfires, across market stalls, through grand halls. People speak of the messenger, the celestial, the angel. You see them again, curled up in a fetal position with their wings cocooning them, their form folding and reshaping themselves as mortals impose identities upon them.

A healer. A warrior. A muse.

Each expectation a mold. Each opinion a new mask.

And though the angel's face remains serene, poised—graceful even—you notice it now. The flicker. The micro-twitch. A wince that doesn't belong. Pain—subtle but unmistakable—buried beneath the surface as they fracture to match fantasies of others.

Over the ages, this shifting identity became a curse. They could recall every face ever worn, every lie spoken to soothe mortal fears, yet no memory of an original self remained. In despair, they sought reassurance from the Creator, pleading for a singular, immutable form. But the Creator remained silent, bound by cosmic law to let mortals shape the angel's existence. They were the bridge between the divine and the flesh—the only way divinity could properly understand mortal and vice-versa.

Then, a throne.

Massive. Towering. Its presence dominates the space. The angel kneels before it, wings unfurled behind them—crushed and colorless, like a butterfly pinned beneath glass. Their head is bowed. You can't hear the words exchanged, but the feeling crashes over you like a wave.

Agony. Sorrow. Desperation. Pleading.

And beyond it all: silence.

A cold, heavy silence that presses into your ribs. The kind that follows disappointment from someone who once loved you. Or worse—pity.

You can feel the weight of the Creator's silence. Not anger. Not wrath. Just... regret. And it's so much heavier than anything else.

Resentment festered. If mortals could define them, why should they not seize control of that power? They abandoned truth, embracing deception. In time, they learned to wield their ever-changing faces as weapons: impersonating kings, prophets, and lovers, sowing discord with whispers of false promises. Their once-pure voice became a chorus of lies, harmonizing with the ambitions and fears of those they encountered.

Scenes follow in rapid succession, kaleidoscopic in nature and fragmented, but you know the angel is there—though their wings are gone, though their face is someone else's.

A king laughs on a golden throne, his kingdom shining. A secret lover slips out of a bed in darkness. An assassin vanishes into a crowd. A prophet raises trembling hands before a weeping congregation.

Then, ruin.

The king's palace, turned to rubble. The lover, now a wife—yet the old wife is miraculously absent. The assassin's victims, nameless in a list. The prophet's followers, bloodied and broken in their belief.

None of them ever saw the angel beneath the face they wore. They never looked long enough, painfully unperceptive—or perhaps unaware.

If no one knew what the angel truly was, then stories couldn't cage them. Rumors couldn't wound them—shape them. And so, they wore more faces. Hid deeper. Buried themselves beneath perception. And when they were wronged—betrayed—they sought retribution. Over and over again.

But the revenge never tasted sweet.

Only hollow.

Thus, the Angel of Faces fell—not through rebellion, but through erosion of identity. Cast from the heavens, they now wander the mortal and infernal realms, a living mask who changes with every glance. They are feared as a master manipulator, a thief of faces and fates, cursed never to be remembered as themselves.

Legends say if you meet someone whose face you forget the moment they turn away, you've crossed paths with the Angel of Faces or their vassals. Pray they haven't taken an interest in wearing your face next.

More faces, more identities flash by, countless and unclear. You can't see them distinctly, but the truth sinks in. You know now. You know who they are.

The Angel of Faces. A creature lost in masks, wandering through mortalkind, trying to feel whole.

A being warped and corrupted by their own nature.

No matter what name they claimed, no matter what role they played—no one ever saw them. Only what they were supposed to be. What others wanted.

A crown. A smile. A blade.

But never themselves.

The images fracture and collapse around you—but not into darkness. This time, they pull you in. Like pages of a book folding shut around you, dragging you into its chapters.

The sun is high, warm and golden, filtering through thick branches overhead. Shadows dapple your skin—real, textured, soft. The breeze smells of pine and something faintly sweet. It feels safe here. Familiar in a way that aches.

But you aren't alone.

Ahead of you, moving slowly through the trees, is a figure. They look like a hunter—simple clothes, dirt on their boots, a bow strapped across their back. It's a quiet disguise, inconspicuous. Something they've worn before, probably in times of mischief or survival.

You follow, but your steps make no sound. You don't rustle the leaves. You leave no footprints. It becomes quickly apparent you aren't really here. Just a silent observer.

The hunter reaches a clearing—a wide expanse of green, peaceful and untouched. At its center stands a single oak tree, massive and ancient, its roots twisting deep into the hill it rests upon. The sunlight catches on its leaves like gold.

You've never been here. Not in memory.

And yet—your chest hurts with recognition.

The ache isn't sudden. It's long, settled. Like a name you forgot but still miss. Like a song you can't hum, but remember how it made you feel.

You miss this place.

But you miss it the way a house misses laughter. The way empty arms remember who they used to hold.

You follow the hunter in silence as he steps into the embrace of the oak's shade, the heavy stillness of the clearing wrapping around him like a familiar blanket. He lowers himself onto the earth with a tired sort of grace, his limbs moving like someone who has worn exhaustion too long to notice it anymore.

You rest just opposite him, your back finding the warm bark. The sun flickers gently through the leaves above, dappling the ground in gold, and for a moment there's peace.

But then it begins crashing over you; a torrent of emotions strong enough to nearly sweep you away.

Regret.

Longing.

Fear.

And grief so ancient it's fossilized into the soul—grief that has learned how to survive by becoming quiet.

It coils in your gut like smoke, pressing against your ribs, too heavy, too consuming. It isn't yours—you know that—but it moves through your body like it belongs there.

It makes you want to rip yourself open just to see if the feelings bleed out. To see if they're real. To see something—anything—clear for once.

You try to drown it out—to focus on the soft hush of wind through leaves, the warmth of soil beneath you, the steady breathing of the man sitting across from you, against the other side of the tree. The quiet hum of the world moving around you. But then—

Footsteps.

Soft, but sure. Grass shifts. A twig snaps.

You tense. Your body doesn't move, but your mind begins to brace itself. You squeeze your eyes tighter, silently begging: Leave. Just walk on by.

But they don't.

They stop—right on the other side of the tree. A beat of silence.

And then—they sit.

Like they belong here.

Like they were always going to.

The bark dug into my spine. My shoulders stiffened, and I pressed harder against the tree, jaw tightening. Whoever they are, they've broken the rhythm of the moment, shattered the fragile stillness I've carved out for myself in this place.

I didn't want to look.

But I had to, didn't I?

Not out of curiosity, not out of fear, but because I felt myself compelled to know who would dare come here, to the one place I'm allowed to not be anyone.

I recall turning my head slowly, angling to peer through the crooked gap in the oak's wide trunk, through what now seemed like a portal to the heavens.

And you sat there quietly, knees drawn up to your chest, head resting in your arms and eyes closed like you belonged there. A mortal, nothing important, nothing special.

I remember shifting to my knees, the bark rough against my palms as I leaned forward, peering through oak's crooked hollow. The memory is soft around the edges, worn thin by time—but you were there, seated as though you belonged.

You must have known the whispers by then—the carefully cultivated reputation, the layers of distance I'd wrapped myself in like a cloak. I'd made myself a shadow, a storm behind furrowed brows and quick footsteps. The kind of presence no one dared to interrupt.

I rose slowly and deliberately, brushing the dirt from my knees with practiced indifference. I took a short walk around the tree, boots pressing quietly into the grass until I stood directly before you. Still, you didn't move. Didn't even glance up. As if my presence meant nothing.

Strange little thing.

Even without knowing the truth buried beneath this face—this shape—I'd made sure the mask was fearsome enough to ward off the curious.

Yet you sat there like you'd missed the message.

I braced my arm against the tree, leaning over you, letting my shadow stretch across your form like a storm rolling in. I remember thinking it would be enough. Surely, this would send you away.

Perhaps I'd grown a little too confident in the image I wore.

And yet, still—nothing.

You didn't move. You didn't cower. You looked at me, eventually, and blinked as though bored by the drama of my entrance. The sky behind you was warm with late summer light, and I remember hating how it caught the edges of your face, like a portrait too breathtaking to forget.

"This is my spot," I said—sharper than I meant to be. The words came out brittle, my tone edged with irritation I hadn't yet admitted was born from something deeper. "Are you a fool? Everyone in town knows not to bother me."

I'd come from a fruitless hunt that day. Old faces Old temples. A bad memory scraped raw by ruins once gilded in my name. And yet you met my bitterness not with fear, but with a half-lidded stare of quiet disbelief—as though I'd just asked something absurd.

Then, you asked me if I had put my name on the tree. On the hill. On the grass beneath our feet.

I had not.

Of course I hadn't.

"You don't seem all that intimidating," you said, head tilted, voice a touch too amused. There was a challenge in your eyes I hadn't seen in ages—cocky and warm like sunlit water that dares you to relax and step deeper.

"We can share."

I argued, of course. Drew lines in the dirt with stubborn words, even threatened you with a bow I never truly meant to raise. I told myself it was principle. Territory. A matter of pride.

But it wasn't.

And still—you stayed.

So I stayed, too.

And it became a game of attrition. A quiet war beneath that old oak tree. Day after day, seeing which of us would yield first. Who would grow tired of the silence. Who would falter.

And yet—

Somehow you slipped into the rhythm of my days. I never meant for it to happen. I never invited you into the quiet rituals I built to keep the world at bay. But time has a way of folding itself around people like you.

Before I realized it, my hours bent at the knee, reshaped by your presence beneath that oak. The days grew long with half-conversations spoken through the gap in the trunk, voices low, laughter occasionally catching on the wind like birdsong.

The mischief faded first—those little pranks, the constant games of pushing and posturing. They dissolved, quietly, as if they had never belonged between us. And in their place: stillness. Companionable silences. Glanced exchanged through the bark. A strange sort of truce that no one decaled.

Summer vanished. Slipped through the cracks like water. The tree grew bare and brittle, its crown stripped of leaves and clothed in frost. Snow came in thick, crystalline blankets, and for a while, I thought that would be the end of us.

Without the tree to claim—without a battleground—I thought you might forget. That I would forget.

So I returned to what this guise knew. I buried myself in the role of a hunter—sharp-eyed and silent. A ghost that moved through the forests and frozen paths. You vanished. Life moved on.

But gods, the winter had teeth that year.

It sunk into me in ways no season ever had before.

I missed you.

You, a mortal—one of the very creatures who had carved me hollow with stories and lies. And yet the ache of your absence bloomed in my chest, slow and unrelenting.

One day—without thinking, without deciding—I found myself beneath the tree again. My feet knew the way better than my heart did.

The air was cold enough to bite, frost curling at the edges of my sleeves, and I stood there like a fool in the snow—ready to accept the silence I'd earned.

But then—you were there.

Waiting.

Lashes kissed white with frost, hair tucked beneath your hood, the pale winter sky behind you like the canvas of a masterwork. You looked like something out of myth—something I might've made up just to keep the loneliness at bay.

"Why are you still here?" I asked. My voice was rough, choked with breath that bloomed white into the cold. The question burned in my throat, but I had to ask it anyway.

You looked up at me with that ridiculous smile—soft, knowing, a little smug—and it tore a laugh from me before I could stop it.

"I won. It's my spot now." you said, brushing snow from your clothes with exaggerated nonchalance.

And every instinct I'd once held sacred—against every philosophy I'd sworn by—I followed you.

I told myself it was curiosity—that I needed to understand. That a mortal like you, warm-eyed and strange, couldn't possibly be real. That something so unspoiled had to be a trick. A lie—like faerie food.

"Where are we going?" I asked, hands clasped neatly behind my back, trying to sound disinterested—detached.

You hummed, tugging your hood a little tighter against the wind.

"Your home," you said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I looked all over town when the cold came, but I couldn't find you.

Your voice wavered just slightly at the edges—the way it always did when something mattered more than you wanted to admit.

"You like to disappear," you added, gaze turned toward the path ahead. "But you can't hide from me."

Hiding?

Had I truly been doing that?

Avoiding the truth nestled deep in my chest—that I'd grown fond of you in ways I never intended? That I was no longer as indifferent as I'd have liked?

"Perhaps I had been." I murmured, more to myself than to you. My head dipped in a quiet concession, and I stepped ahead, reluctant but resolved, guiding you toward the place I called home.

Or rather... the place I'd borrowed.

The home had once belonged to a huntsman who drank himself to death, his loneliness thick enough to choke on. I'd slipped into the shape of him, claimed his bed, his hearth, his name. Mortals rarely question a presence that mimics familiarity well enough.

I've lived in countless homes—shacks, palaces, temples of crystal, and cities carved in marble. Each built around the face I wore at the time. But none of them ever fit right. Every roof felt too low, every bed too soft or stiff. They had pressed against me like ill-fitted skins. none could hold me—not the real me.

And yet... this one somehow, felt different.

You filled the space in a way I never could. Your voice, your laughter, even the way you sulked when the wind crept in under the door—it made the walls feel less like cages.

There were nights when I forgot what I was. Where I wasn't an angel buried under names and masks and vengeance—I was just something warm, watching you speak beside the crackling fire.

And then, as if we had blinked, winter was gone.

Melted into memory.

It struck me quietly one day beneath the old oak—that was the longest I'd kept an identity. The longest I'd stayed still without splintering a town or vanishing into the fog, without punishing someone for the weight of their perception.

That evening, you met me beneath the tree again, a satchel in hand and a grin tucked at the corners of your mouth. You'd saved for weeks, you said, pinched coin where you could, though I knew most of that money had come from me. Quiet gifts slipped into your pouch when you weren't looking. What use did I have for currency? I did not eat. I did not burn fuel. I had no need for comfort.

But you—you used it to buy a book.

And when you opened it, when your fingers brushed the yellowed pages, something shifted.

Because I recognized the words. I remembered them.

My stories. My tragedies. My sins—etched into ink by mouths that had never known me, retold by voices who feared and worshipped in equal measure.

And you were reading them. You knew.

My breath caught in my throat, unfamiliar and painful. That age-old instinct reared its head—run. Disappear. Start again.

I always ran when I was seen too clearly.

My hands trembled. My stomach churned with something not quite shame, not quite terror—a horrible ache. Familiar. Like home.

I stared at you, bracing for betrayal, or disgust, or fear—for the look that always followed.

But instead—

"I—I'm sorry." I heard myself say.

The words tumbled from my lips without permission, jagged and strange, like something living had crawled out from deep inside me.

A part of me recoiled in disgust. Apologizing? To a mortal? I'd never done that—not sincerely.

And still, I searched your face. Desperate. Panicked. Waiting for you to shatter the fragile world I'd built. To call me monster. To finally see me.

The sky spun above us. The forest pressed in. And I—

I felt stuck in my skin. I wanted to tear it off—to leave the hunter behind and vanish into mist, into shadow, into myth.

Because that's all I've ever known how to do.

Flee. Run. Hide.

It's all I've ever done.

But you only shook your head, quiet and steady, and gently pulled me down to sit beside you beneath the tree.

And then—like it was the simplest thing in the world—you spoke words I never imagined I'd be allowed to hear. Words I thought were forbidden to something like me.

"You have no name, no face, no anchor to the world... Do you want one? Should I give you one?"

Your hands were warm—foolishly so, impossibly so—and when they rose to cup my cheek, I leaned into them without protest. Without thought. Just instinct. Bone-deep exhaustion seeped from my limbs, and I slumped into your waiting shape like a story trying to remember how it was first told.

Centuries folded in on themselves inside me: Regret, violence, tenderness, exile, desperation. I carried them all, and suddenly, I was too tired to bear the weight alone.

"That is impossible, my dear," I murmured with the heavy certainty of someone who had begged one, long ago, and learned never to ask again. "Not even the Creator could grant me that."

But you simply hummed, a sound as light as wind through leaves, unburdened by the rules I'd spent lifetimes bound to.

"The Creator is governed by cosmic law, sure. But mortals...mortals were given free will. And they were given dominion over you, weren't they? So I ask again—what do you say?"

Those words hit something ancient and aching inside me—something that had never been named but always lingered, humming under my skin like a prayer I couldn't remember anymore. My lips parted before I could stop them.

"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, please."

And so it began.

We spent four months and eight days fashioning me like a myth retold by firelight.

You scratched categories into the dirt with a stick, had me toss pebbles with my eyes shut to choose hair, height, voice, eyes. We ran through fields and libraries and markets so I could feel what drew me, what felt like mine. We spoke for hours—about food, about stars, about what kind of kindness I might carry. We peeled back the layers and decided who I wanted to be when I wasn't forced to be anything at all.

And slowly, I became.

A name began to rise in me like spring after a cruel winter. A shape. A soul. A self.

And in that self, I found something terrifying:

I had fallen in love with you. And love—what a cruel thing. What a luminous, sickening thing. It turns every other feeling into a shadow. It renders contentment into longing. It corrodes reason and whispers delusion in a voice sweeter than truth. Love is the death of logic, the ruin of kingdoms, the doom of angels. And I needed it. I needed it with an ache that made me stupid. Desperate. Mortal.

So I wrote you little poems under moonlight, clumsy with feeling, desperate to condense eternity into twelve words. I slipped them into your books, between the recipes you collected and the strange ideas you left half-finished in the margins.

I loved you the only way I knew how: endlessly. I would have loved you until our veins braided like roots in the earth and our hearts beat the same rhythm beneath our ribs.

Because you were my Creator. You were the one who saw me not as myth or threat or shapeless horror, but as someone who could be.

You made me real.

And without you, I had no reason to be anyone at all.

I never should have let you give me everything.

Never should have placed you in the path of what I was—what I've always been.

Because while the Creator could not command mortals, could not lace them with cosmic law or shape their choices—it could still ensure. It could correct. It could balance the scale.

And it did.

Because you crossed the line that wasn't meant to be drawn, let alone stepped over. And I stood at your side and let you.

A defiance. A devotion. A crime.

A mortal, after all, was never meant to rewrite the purpose of one of its creations.

To grant meaning where none was given— To name what should have remained nameless— That was a violation. A defiance of divine structure. An offense that demanded retribution.

I remember the night it happened as though it were carved into me. The details seared into the marrow of my being, relentless in their clarity. No matter how much time passes, that memory remains untouched by erosion.

We walked in silence, your hand cradled in mine. I had planned to tell you everything—about what I had done, what I had been, and what you'd done to my heart. I was ready to surrender the whole truth. But your hand was warm, your thumb brushing the backing of mine in small, thoughtless circles, and I found myself stalling to make the moment last just a bit longer.

My divine heart beat with a violence I'd never known—no battle or vengeance or miracle had ever stirred it like this. With you beside me, all of it—every war, every mark, every century—faded into background noise and it no longer seemed as loud in my head. You were more than grounding. You were anchoring.

You made me real.

You chattered about something that had happened earlier that day—some nonsense about a goat loose in town with two children clinging to its back like miniature bandits. The scene meant nothing to me, but your laughter rang like a melody I hadn't known I needed until I heard it. That sound—pure and unburdened—was rest. A kind of rest I'd never been allowed.

And the moonlight? It loved you as much as I did.

It bathed your skin like a blessing, caught in your hair, made your eyes gleam with mischief and warmth. I remember thinking the entire world looked like a backdrop created to cradle your beauty alone—just a stage where you moved freely and unknowingly beautiful.

You looked up at me, your expression full of unbearable joy you always managed to carry, even over the smallest things. It unsettled me, in a way. How could you be so happy in such a broken world? How could you carry such softness without it cutting you open?

And perhaps... perhaps that tiny shard of judgement—of not understanding you fully—is what made it worse. Perhaps that is what made it all the more tragic.

Because I hesitated.

I let the night go on too long.

I let myself fall too deeply into the illusion that maybe, just maybe, I could have all of this.

You. Peace. A name. A future.

And in that hesitation I doomed you.

They moved through time because they existed outside of it.

And your lips—those soft, precious things that said the most wondrous things—had just begun to part with a question or a laugh or a breath, I'll never know. It was lost in the moment your eyes widened, a flash of something ancient behind them—recognition. A silent understanding that something had happened, something final, even if you didn't yet know what it was.

Then came the executioner. A blade plunged cleanly through your back—swift, silent, a perfect strike. It didn't bleed you. No, the blade wasn't meant to be tainted with blood. It was meant for undoing.

It pierced you like a key, not a weapon—unlocking soul from flesh, unthreading the stitches that kept you in this world. You crumpled, so softly, like a page torn from sacred text. And oh, how I wanted—how I needed—to have moved faster. To have noticed sooner. To have thrown myself behind you and taken it all.

The executioner was beautiful. All things from the divine realm are. Beautiful in the way holy things are: absolute, motionless, terrifying. They never opened their mouth. Never broke their gaze. But their presence split the sky inside me. They were not cruel—not even angry. That would have been easier.

Instead, they were perfect. Silent. Unmovable.

And it was that stillness that shattered me.

I felt the weight of every sin, even the ones I hadn't known I'd committed—especially the one I'd inflicted on you. They pressed down on me until I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, as you sank to the forest floor like a puppet whose strings had been snipped with precision.

I looked in fury at them, searching for a sign of injustice I could fight back against, but there was nothing. Nothing but a slight nod—a movement so small it could have been the wind, and yet I felt it. A gesture I couldn't understand then, but now, maybe it was pity. Maybe it was a quiet apology. Because they are only summoned when a divine law has been broken so utterly that even the gods and angels must look away.

It wasn't your fault.

It was mine.

And yet they punished you all the same.

I collapsed beside your body, the earth rushing to meet me. The forest dulled around me, sounds folding into a high-pitched ring, like reality itself was recoiling at the sheer grief of the scene. I gathered you in my arms with trembling hands, and I knew it the moment I touched you—you were gone.

Not sleeping. Not wounded. Just... absent.

Your body was still whole. Still beautiful. The vessel I had admired, adored. But the soul within—that spark that laughed and argued and made me—it was nowhere to be found.

And I didn't know how to react. There was no emotion strong enough, no shape of grief that could express what tore through me.

My form betrayed me—unraveled into the divine shape you had never seen. The one I hated. Wings too large, body too incomprehensible, face too beautiful. My voice broke apart when I tried to speak, to demand why the Creator had taken you and not me. To beg for your return.

But no words came, and when I looked up, the executioner was already gone.

Just like you.

I was alone.

The woods—once warm, once soft—were suddenly hollow. The moonlight, once silver and loving, burned like acid on my skin. The whole world had turned against me.

And then I sensed it. Not just your absence, but your removal.

You weren't in this world. Not in the heavens. Not in the underworld. You had been taken—cast out into another realm entirely, one far beyond my reach. A place even somebody of my caliber couldn't go.

The Creator didn't just correct the error.

It hid the evidence.

You.

Gone.

Perhaps it was the carnal desire to be gone, to undo myself, to become nothing. My form began to break. That beautiful, temporary self you'd helped my build—it cracked and splintered until it was dust. Until there was nothing left but darkness.

I lost my face. My shape. My center.

What remained was a shifting blot of ink and shadow. A void. An echo. And without you, even that felt too much.

I don't remember what I did that night. Or the nights after. Or the years that followed.

Maybe decades. Maybe more.

But eventually, I started to hear whispers—of a shadow that moved like smoke. A shapeless thing that fed on grief and misery. A monster that haunted the edges of villages, stealing warmth and magic from the air.

And I understood.

Without you, without your name on my lips and your laugh in my chest, I had let myself be shaped by mortal fear and legend.

I was forced into a mold again.

I spent years searching for you—my heart, my breath, the axis upon which my very being once turned. I scoured every corner of the living realm, dared disturb the divine with my rotting body of misery, even descended into the underworlds where no light reaches. Always hoping—aching—that the feeling was wrong. That hollow emptiness where your presence should have been was a lie. That maybe I was only panicking.

But it was never a lie. You were gone.

And in that time... I don't know what I became.

Without you—my reason, my tether—I was a thing adrift. Disgusting in nature, I hid and only lashed out. I lived in echoes and shadows, unanchored and shapeless. A being wearing old regrets like skin. I can't remember the faces I wore, or the deeds I committed while searching. There are blank places in my memory, stained only with the knowledge that I must have hurt many in my desperation. I must have destroyed things, twisted fates, left ruin in my wake.

And may the divine forgive me—I would do it all again if it meant finding you.

But you are not here to forgive me.

Not yet.

So I wait.

I wait like a prayer made in flesh. I wait like an abandoned altar beneath a sky that no longer answers.

I wait for my creator to return—not the One in the heavens, but you. You, who named me. You, who gave me a face. You, who made me someone.

I wait for you to salvage me from this endless dark, to craft me again with warm hands and soft laughter. To call me into being like you did before.

Because I believe now, with all the fragile, fractured pieces of what remains of me, that the Creator—the Creator—was hasty. Rash in its punishment. Cruel in its corrections. It shattered us and called it balance, but it made a single, fateful mistake.

It forgot to scratch your name from the ledges buried deep within the grand library of all things that are, and were, and will be.

And all unnatural things, in time, return to how they belong. Like a tide pulling the wayward back to shore. Like a thread—cut too early—still tugging at the loom.

So I hoped. Oh, I hoped with the kind of hope that burns and scalds. With the kind of hope that only something eternal can endure.

It took a long, long time. Longer than most stars get. And in that time I did everything. Begging. Bartering. Lying. Challenging.

The Weaver of Fates hated me, hated the way I slipped between threads, rearranged destinies like pages in a book, like a god with a pen too eager. But like all living things, even the divine, they grew curious. Even they hungered for something new—an unexpected turn in the story. And so, for each fate I promised to rewrite in their name, I was granted one meager decade within their library.

And there—

Amid endless shelves, beneath eternity's whirring lanterns, swathed in dust and starlight and silence—

I found you.

Your thread.

Out of nowhere. Woven anew. Subtle, but unmistakable.

You.

I remember how I staggered. How the breath left me like a struck bell. How my trembling hands reached for the book that held your name like it was the only thing in the universe worth touching.

Because to me, it was—It is.

You were still out there. Alive again. Somewhen.

And the only thing left in me—after centuries of ruin, centuries of silence—was the desperate, carnal need to find you again.

My Savior.

You returned to the world through the smallest crack—a school and a fluke of magic, they called it. But I knew it was fate, twisting itself in impossible ways just to give me a second chance.

The world, however, is as cruel as it is careless. Your fate was once again marred by suffering—cut open by hands that saw you not as a soul, not as the brilliant, unshakable light I remembered, but as a vessel.

A means to an end. A thing to use.

The book said they'd grow to love you. That time would soften their edges, that eventually they'd see the truth of you and come to adore you. but now, my star—how could they not immediately fall to their knees before your purity? How could they ever lay a hand on your gentle spirit and think it anything less than sacred?

I couldn't allow it. Not again. Not after all you'd already endured because of me.

Please. Please rest, my beloved. Let me carry the weight for a while.

Come back to me, curl close to my side. Lay your head against my chest, feel my heart beating for you and you alone. Let it remind you that you're not alone anymore. That you're home, you're safe.

I felt it in the moment you stepped through again—the second your soul returned to this realm. The wind shifted. The light changed. The world, once fueled by my grief, suddenly shimmered with warmth and color.

And there you were. So breathtaking, it almost hurt.

A different form, yes, but still you. Your soul radiated through, unmissable, unmistakable. That light of yours—impossibly bright. Unyielding. Unchanged.

In that moment, I nearly ran to you, fell to my knees before you like a worshipper before their altar. I would have offered every piece of me right then—my hands, my heart, my every divine and ruined piece.

I wanted to pray to you, not the Creator.

Because only you had ever given me peace. Only you made me real.

And so, driven by that desperate ache, knowing what trials were written for you in the pages of fate, I made a choice.

A hasty, selfish, loving choice.

Please forgive me.

I became your guardian.

Not by divine assignment—no, the heavens had long since turned from me. I was no longer an Angel, no longer anything at all in their eyes. A fallen thing. A memory.

Shelter. Protection. A little more time.

Until I could earn back your love, until we could escape this wretched cycle together—somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Somewhere the stars forgot. Hidden even from the Creator's gaze.

I passed my gift to you—the same one that had once forced me to slip through the cracks of perception, to disappear and be ignored by even the divine. I made you forgettable. Your name, your face, your presence—reduced to a whisper in the minds of those around you.

No one could hold you long enough to break you again.

But I was wrong. I was so wrong.

The night I found you in the snow, body broken and spirit dimmed, something inside of me that had been subtly blooming again tore.

My treasure—my heart, my only—shattered again, and I hadn't even seen it coming. You had become so invisible, so perfectly cloaked in my protection that even I could no longer feel the ache of your suffering until it was too late.

And still, even mangled, you begged to be seen.

To be known.

And perhaps—perhaps I had been cruel in my reverence. So intent on protecting you that I denied you the very thing you longed for: connection.

So I lifted it.

The concealment, the cloak, the silence. I peeled it back and let the world see you again.

And I watched you drown beneath the affection you so rightly deserved—both soft and overwhelming, subtle and blinding. Some of it pure. Some of it not.

And I remained in the shadow, unseen. As always. Just your guardian. Just the broken remnant of what you once loved. Waiting.

Always waiting.

For the day you remember me.

And love me again.

Hi?

Sorry this one took so long.

While writing it I kinda got a little worried I was messing up. This is technically a twst fic but this entire 8k word chapter is almost only about the Blot. Which is my own character and I realized some of you might just want twst content?

btw the religious themes have no intentional connection to any real religions. It's my own thoughts, my own story. I hope it doesn't offend.

Did this cook?? I'm so anxious because I really got to write about what I really like and my own OC!

🦐 yuur_grace

❤️ 23.2k 🗨️ 2.3k 🔄 442

𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 Decided to pay our octobuddy a little visit at the @mostrolounge this afternoon 🐙🍹What a face! (also, wow where did all of you come from?? Was Leona's sleeping visage that baffling of a prospect? ùᴗu,, actually, I'm now realizing that I hadn't even set this account to private...oops.)

🐬 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁𝘀.𝗮.𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗮𝘆 ahahah!! oh man look at his face! little shrimpy's got guts~

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ¬🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 thanks for being the cameraman buddy ùᴗu ͙͘͡★ 7 replies

❤️ 𝗮𝗰𝗲_𝗼𝗳𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀 I'm surprised you didn't get ptsd just from walking into that room LMAO

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ¬🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 @ace_ofhearts hm okay how about you join me next time

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ¬❤️ 𝗮𝗰𝗲_𝗼𝗳𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀 @yuur_grace no thank you <3

🐬 𝗷𝗮𝗱𝗲.𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗰𝗵. hahah. how swift. perhaps i may join you one day to capture such riveting images. 3 replies

🌐 𝘁𝘄𝘀𝘁𝗻𝗽𝗰 ok no I'm actually so invested we can't just move on from the fact that this guy showed up all of a sudden and just KNOWS Leona kingscholar personally?!?? 200 replies

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎.𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆★⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲

❤️ 530.5k 🗨️ 221k 🔄 138k

𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 Another face cradled! And a dear friend hugged! Had a blast at this wonderful get-together in Scarabia dorm ☀️🏮🎇 I think I'm ready to sleep for a week though hahaha ^^;

☀️ 𝗸𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗺✪ I'm so glad you came! I don't think I've had that much fun with friends in a while! You're always welcome whenever you feel like visiting 😊✨

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎¬ 🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 @kalimalasim always!

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎¬ 🌐 𝘁𝘄𝘀𝘁𝗻𝗽𝗰 ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME 1240 replies

🐍 𝗷𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹_𝘃 There's still some leftovers if you'd like to take some for Grim. Or yourself, really. 2 replies

🌐 𝘁𝘄𝘀𝘁𝗻𝗽𝗰 oh okay so there's even MORE. why not. SURE. 212 replies

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎.𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆★⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲

❤️ 970.6k 🗨️ 596.3k 🔄 502k

𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 Nothing better than a long evening spent with the beauty queen himself @vilshoenheit. And look, he reciprocated! How sweet~ 💜✨ A wonderful idol, an even better friend.

👑 𝘃𝗶𝗹𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗲𝗻𝗵𝗲𝗶𝘁✪ How precious. Do take good care of that manicure.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎¬👑 𝘃𝗶𝗹𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗲𝗻𝗵𝗲𝗶𝘁 Wait, Grace, is this a private post?

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ¬🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 will do! 🤍 2304 replies

🍎 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗽𝗲𝗹_𝗳𝗲𝗹𝗺𝗶𝗲𝗿 man you're better than me, i can't stand a second doin any a this balderdash

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎¬🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 your loss,, it's sooo relaxing 🙂‍↕️

🌐 𝘁𝘄𝘀𝘁𝗻𝗽𝗰 YOU GUYS I CANT COPE ARE YOU KIDDING MEEEEEEE 784 replies

🌐 𝘁𝘄𝘀𝘁𝗻𝗽𝗰 is this guy some sorta undercover cop or sum?? how's he got all these crazy ass ties??

🏹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗵𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗸 oh, là là... quelle beauté, the calm before the storm~

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎.𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆★⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲

❤️ 60.3k 🗨️ 43.4k 🔄 22.5k

𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 Seems like I've been graced with this nice little picture from @0r1h0_shr0ud2 during a visit to Idia's dorm! No face hold unfortunately, but it's quite cute!🩵🤍 Very rare, it seems Idia has yet to realize the photo being taken ^o^. Peep the adorable little PreMo gacha figure I got for him...? 👀

🩵 𝟬𝗿𝟭𝗵𝟬_𝘀𝗵𝗿𝟬𝘂𝗱𝟮 I was so happy that you decided to stay and keep my brother company, Grace Alexander-san. Idia doesn't show it, but you really made his day!

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ¬🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 @0r1h0_shr0ud2 awww! I'm always happy to spend time with you both! 🤍 3 replies

💙 𝗴𝗹𝟬𝟬𝗺𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗶 woah when was this?! you can't just spring such a rare event out of nowhere! delete, delete!!! 5 replies

♦️ 𝗱𝗶𝗮𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗱_𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱 oh my Seven!! you both look so dope! truly inspiring— and can we talk about how *adorbs* you look with that biscuit hanging from ur mouth?? (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎¬🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 @diamond_mind brothaaaa keep this up and you'll be fighting off rumors for days LOL ùᴗu ahuahu

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ¬❤️ 𝗮𝗰𝗲_𝗼𝗳𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀 @yuur_grace OH U WANNA HEAR ABOUT RUMORS??? HAHAH

🌐 𝘁𝘄𝘀𝘁𝗻𝗽𝗰 Am I tweaking or is that like. *The* Idia Shroud from the family Shroud part of the largest technological pioneers in Twisted Wonderland. Or am I insane.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ¬🌐 𝘁𝘄𝘀𝘁𝗻𝗽𝗰 this HAS to be a social experiment atp?? What in the world is this guy's power??? 467 replies

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎.𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆★⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲

❤️ 2.1m 🗨️ 740.3k 🔄 680k

𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 it felt almost special, leaving my vest off. Maybe it was the winter breeze. Tsunotaro helped me with his cape, though, despite my insistence. What a sweet personality! 💚🐉 We took a long walk through an abandoned woods, found some gorgeous gargoyles. To end my little series, I asked to hold him as well. He doesn't own a magicam account so I can't tag him... But at least he can keep the pictures :) Hurray! It ends! 🤍✨

🌐 𝘁𝘄𝘀𝘁𝗻𝗽𝗰 THERE IS NOOOOO FUCKING WAY I REFUSE NO NO ABSOLUTELY NO WAY THIS IS AN EVIL PRANK WHAT WHAT WHATTTTATSYSYTHJDHJ WHO IS THIS GUYYYYYY 1204 replies

🌐 𝘁𝘄𝘀𝘁𝗻𝗽𝗰 OH YES DROP THE BOMB ON US WHY NOT. OKAY. THREE OTHER CELEBS WEREN'T ENOUGH I GUESS. 762 replies

🦇 𝘃𝗮𝗻𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗲𝗲 Grace, you must know I have never been so entertained in my long life. Why, Malleus himself sits beside me and stares down at the screen in bafflement!

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ¬🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 @vanrougee ???? Explain?? ToT

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎¬♦️ 𝗱𝗶𝗮𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗱_𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱 @yuur_grace you sweet summer child 😭✋

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎¬ 🐊 𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴.𝘇𝗶𝗴𝗯𝗼𝗹𝘁 @yuur_grace YOU ARE ENTIRELY UNCONNIVING. YOU PLACE MALLEUS UNDER INTENSE SCRUTINY FROM THE MASSES AS WELL AS LADY MALEFICIA! YOU SHOULD BE MORE MINDFUL, HUMAN!!

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ¬🦐 𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗿_𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 OH my god.

he never picked up on your increased resistance though, not until three years after the birth of your child and they began displaying signs of a fusion quirk. he turned to you, delighted, and you appeared relieved too, but he was left gawking incredulously after you said, "how lucky. thank the lord we don't need to have another child. one was hard enough."

hearing that caused his heart to drop, as he realised who he had become and the cumulative impact his behaviour has had on you. how could his own wife depise him to that extent? this question haunted him because he knew the answer, he just never had the strength to confront it before.

he had to do something to fix it, now. loving him wasn't necessary, but he needed to prove to you his worth as a father and a husband. he did his best to attend every single one of your kid's baseball games with you, he'd buy you a new bouquet of flowers every week, he'd kiss you on the cheek as a show of affection, whenever you needed a self-care day he'd arrange time-off work, he'd take the family out to the aquarium and the zoo and disneyland and wherever you pleased.

but none of it was ever enough to penetrate your rigid defences. despite his best efforts, he was left with a wife that hates him and child that may grow up to resent him. what a legecy he has paved.

one night, he is sat in bed, doing some light reading before he goes to sleep, when his child sulks into the room. they explain they had a nightmare and want to sleep in their dad's bed tonight. of course tenya agrees and usually there isn't any problems, but tonight the child continued to stir, until they requested, "can mommy sleep here too?"

tenya blinked. usually he would bend over backwards to cheer up his kid, especially as they are having sleep troubles, but this is a bit more complicated as you might be opposed to the idea. however, there was no harm in trying, so tenya sent the kid to your room to ask if it was okay with you.

and of course, you adore your child with everything you have, so if sleeping with your useless husband is what it takes to help them rest soundly, then so be it. you trudge into tenya's room and plop down on the queen-sized bed, with your beloved baby nuzzled between you two. it actually wasn't as awkward as you initially thought, and all three of you are lulled off into the serene night.

tenya woke up before you, so he was the first to realise that your child had snuck off in the middle of the night, while the two of you subconciously cuddled each other. hence, he had you wrapped in his strong arms, with your face nuzzled into his chest.

even with bedhead and a bit drool smudged on your cheek, he thought, you were still so beautiful. so much so, he couldn't help but smile and protectively tighten his grip on you. so funny too. sarcastic yet sickeningly sweet and caring.

had things been different, he wondered if the two of you would've truly been in love. he reckons so; you really are his type, and the perfect girl, which is something he's realising all too late. he blames the circumstances and wishes more than anything that the two of you could've met organically, because although he isn't the best husband, he would give anything to have been your boyfriend.

the split was somewhat amiable. there was a bit of tension between the two of at first, whenever you'd see each other while exchanging the child, but after a couple years, when the dust had settled, it became routine and benign.

though not a day went by when tenya didn't think about you. perhaps it was weird or obsessive to still cling to the memories of a subpar relationship so dearly, but he wondered how things may have gone if he had opened up, and he cherished the time he had with you.

not only that, but he was repulsed by the idea of dating or marrying anyone else. once his co-workers and friends found out what happened, they tried to set him on blind dates and match him with mutual connections but he always refused. in his heart, you were always going to be his only wife and his one true love.

your love life was none of his business, is what he told himself, and he shouldn't expect you to feel the same way he does. it was only natural that you would want to move on, but despite how much he tried not to care, it still tore him apart to hear his child talk about the adventures they've went on with you and your new boyfriend, who they call 'mister'. days out to the beach, the park, toy shops, skate parks; tenya would just sit in devestated silence while his child enthused about the amazing time you all had together. it made you sound like one happy little family. maybe he was a bit jealous.

these feelings of regret and longing stirred within him for a while, eating him up from the inside. and it never truly stopped, but when his child started displaying academic and heroic excellence, and followed in his footsteps by securing a place in UA, the joy and pride became enough to drown out the sorrow.

however, with all good, there must come bad. even though being accepted into UA is a massive accomplishment, it means that his child has to leave home to go live in the campus dorms. your kid's absence was hard for both you and tenya, but neither of you wanted to hold your child back from greatness, so you both learned to cope with the discomfort.

the concept of coming home to an empty house wasn't foreign to tenya. he would do that for weeks at a time while the child was in your custody, but remembering that they will come back to his house in a month's time is what kept him going. but now, he was truly all alone. and it was miserable.

he had to do something to take his mind off it, otherwise he may spiral into villainy. so, he opted to visit the bar in the city centre. he wasn't much of a drinker but he heard they are doing a stand-up comedy night: what better to cheer him up?

when he walks in, he is quick to notice a certain somebody sitting at a table all on their own, looking rather upset — more than just a bit disheartened, it appeared as though you had been crying. he mulls over whether he should go up and talk to you. after all, you did initiate a divorce for a reason, to be rid of him. however, it's been almost a decade since then and you are both on good terms, so surely he could offer you some solace, as a friend.

he approaches the table and smiles warmly at you. it's embarrassing to see him while you're still damp with tears, but you're too tired to tell him to go away. and really, it's kinda comforting to see his stupid face right now.

when he asks what's wrong, you explain that you got into an arguement with your boyfriend and he left. a small part of him was relieved to hear that you are single, but for the most part he was angry: how dare your ex boyfriend treat you like that? you are understandably upset, but really that man is a cad. good riddance to him! is what tenya tells you.

it amuses you a bit to see how worked up he gets over your relationship. he must care about you a lot more than you recall. you ask him about what's been going on in his life that brings him to a bar at night — the last place you'd ever expect to see him.

he explains that he came to the stand-up comedy night to take his mind off of your child. you agree, saying that them being away in the UA dorms has taken a toll on you too. especially now that you're single and alone.

"at least we are not alone tonight." tenya muses. and you agree, again.

that night at the bar with your ex husband is one that you'll never forget. you sat in the front row together, whooping and cheering for all the acts that came on, laughing until you couldn't breath properly, even when the comics weren't that good because you'd exchange a knowing look with each other that would cause you to burst out laughing.

you only had a couple cocktails but you convinced tenya to try a sip of yours. he was opposed at first because it has such a crass name (sex on the beach? oh lord!) and anything that vulgar couldn't be good, but he finds it hard to say no to you, so tried some and he actually really liked it. he ordered a few more and got so tipsy he would heckle the comedians whenever they would poke fun at pro-heroes or all might. (all might? more like 'all might-need-a-hip-replaceme—' shut your mouth!!!)

after that, the music came back on and you sat and talked for hours, about anything that came to mind. mostly you discussed how proud you were of your child getting into UA, however it was also an open forum for you to gripe about your ex boyfriend and for tenya to complain about his co-workers always trying to set him up.

eventually, it came time to go home. tenya had pretty much sobered up from dancing — you begged him to do the robot — but you were still a bit whoozy so he insisted on walking you home, keeping an arm around your shoulder the entire time so lurking criminals wouldn't get any ideas.

when you reached your front door, he helped you unlock it and was ready to leave as soon as you had made it safely inside. but just as he was about to turn around, you call after him, "iida?"

it was strange hearing you call him that, since you used to be iida too. none the less, he faced you and said, "yes?"

you leaned against the door frame, a small smile spreading across your sweet lips and your face shone in the moonlight, "i had lots of fun with you tonight."

"as did i." he reciprocated with a soft grin.

"do you think we could do this again sometime?" you ask timidly, a lapse of shyness flickering across your face, as you cast your gaze down, "i heard they are going to do a wine tasting night soon."

his heart jumps in his chest, and butterflies swarm in his stomach. the heat that flushes his cheeks is like none he's ever experienced before. his hands are suddenly clammy and his joints are stiff; he feels young again. the pervasive sensation is awkward yet so enthralling: is this romance?

"i'd like that." he chokes.

you grin from ear-to-ear at his response, and slowly close the door and you sing, "great! i'll text you the details."

he nods slightly and watches you do so with a flabbergasted expression. he's unsure how but if he's not mistaken, he's landed a date with his ex-wife, and he couldn't be any happier about it.